


Keeping Secrets

by esteoflorien



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:45:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteoflorien/pseuds/esteoflorien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary has secrets to keep, but when she’s found out, she recognizes herself in the most unlikely place. (Fic written for the Corah Christmas Exchange on Tumblr. My prompt was: "There's someone who's loved you forever but you don't know it/or you might feel it and just not show it" - Kate Bush, Among Angels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Secrets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itstheredshoes](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=itstheredshoes).



Mary panics when she wakes to find O’Brien setting out her things instead of Anna, never mind that there is tea steaming on her night table.

"Good morning, my lady," O’Brien says, cool as you please. "Anna is not feeling well this morning. Will Miss Swire be returning to her room to dress, or shall I fetch her things?"

The answer Mary would like to give, the answer she would usually give is right at the tip of her tongue, but she bites back the irritation at O’Brien’s presence and her sanctimonious politesse. She will need to make an ally of this woman, unfortunately.

"Miss Swire will dress with me, and then we will go down to breakfast."

"Very good, my lady," comes O’Brien’s deferential reply. She excuses herself with a curt nod. Mary wants her to have out with it, to let her shock show at finding a woman - a thoroughly undressed, apparently well-loved woman - comfortably sharing the four-poster belonging to the eldest daughter of the Earl.

~

In the afternoon, Lavinia joins Matthew in the study, where they read silently for hours. Matthew is still recovering and Lavinia, as he says, has always liked to read. Lavinia does indeed like to read, Mary knows, but she likes to read aloud, with ebullient dramatic flourishes. She likes to pause for discussion. She likes to say, “Listen to this!” so Mary can hear a particularly nice turn of phrase or comic repartee. Now she fidgets with the corners of the pages, glances at the clock. When Matthew looks her way, she smiles, when she notices.

Mary goes out riding, wearing jodhpurs and eschewing a saddle, riding fast and hard, her hair flying loose behind her.

They studiously avoid each other, and Mary is miserable. She closes her eyes and remembers the wind in her hair, and wishes she could unlace the corset, take off the jewels, and ride. She would take Lavinia with her. She would need to saddle, for Lavinia does not ride. She would hold Lavinia by the waist before her, and whisper in her ear, and they would be far away from Downton, from Matthew, from maids who fall sick and require replacements.

~

Later, when O’Brien has come in to help her undress, Lavinia is safely ensconced in her own room, no doubt being tended to by one of the housemaids, Mary attempts to study O’Brien in the mirror hoping to read her face. It’s inconceivable that O’Brien has kept their secret, even if Mama said nothing at luncheon and was perfectly placid at dinner, and likewise the servants have been positively indifferent, as they always are. Perhaps they are better and burying their gossip until they get back below.

It is patently obvious that O’Brien has no plans to say anything beyond the perfunctory questions she must ask.

"O’Brien," Mary finally ventures, because she must, "I am sorry to have no doubt startled you this morning." There, she thinks, perfectly noncommittal.

"No, my lady," O’Brien answers, tying off Mary’s braid with a ribbon. "I was not startled."

Bother.

"O’Brien, that is, you know I must request your discretion." O’Brien raises an eyebrow. Of course she is discreet. That is why she is the lady’s maid to the Countess of Grantham, because she is as good at keeping secrets and hiding problems as she is at styling hair and choosing the lady’s clothes.

"Or rather, I know you will feel you must speak to Mama about my friendship with Miss Swire —"

Finally O’Brien takes pity on her. “No, my lady,” she interrupts. “No, that I would not do.”

"But -"

O’Brien’s inscrutable expression suddenly looks very tired. “As I said, my lady, I would not do that.”

Mary quirks a small smile at her, and O’Brien picks up the laundry and bows out.

When Lavinia tiptoes into her room that night, Mary smiles.

"She won’t tell, then?" she asks as she settles herself in bed, on her side, smoothing out the duvet. Her movements are so sweetly domestic that Mary thinks she might cry.

"One can’t ever be sure," Mary answers. "But she has said she will not."

Lavinia presses a kiss to the corner of Mary’s mouth. “Lucky girls, are we not?” she quips, laying her head on Mary’s shoulder. Soon her eyes close, and Mary falls asleep to the measured cadence of her breath.

~

Mary sees very little of O’Brien once Anna is better. They do not speak of that morning. Anna does not mention it at all. It is as if they have all taken a vow of silence, and Mary quite likes it this way. Matthew returns to his law practice, and she and Lavinia gradually ease back into their old routine.

One sunny afternoon, Mary coaxes Lavinia out riding.

~

She feels unmoored when the Spanish flu invades Downton Abbey, when Lavinia lies feverish and sweaty in her bed, her hair plastered to her face, and her pallid skin indistinguishable from the raw silk of her nightdress, when she says things that don’t make sense and sees things that don’t exist. When Isobel and Matthew let them alone, Mary lies down next to her, bathes her forehead, and kisses her when she is lucid. She treasures the brief moments when Lavinia rubs her thumb across her palm, when she quiets at the sound of her voice.

Down the hall, Mary knows that her mother is fighting for her life. When Dr. Clarkson comes, when cousin Isobel comes in to look after Lavinia, Mary goes to see her mother. She kisses another feverish forehead, she bathes another sweaty face, she embraces her sisters who make rounds among the patients of the house as if Downton were once again a hospital. She ignores her father’s absence and runs the household as best as she can. Mrs. Hughes tries not to bother her, and Mary wonders if she has an inkling of why Mary runs back and forth, back and forth down the hallways, leaving one sickroom for another. Her father is nowhere to be seen.

On her return from the kitchens, she hesitates at the top of the stairs, uncertain which room to visit first, and sees her father step outside his rooms. For once, she does not call out to him. He glances up and down the hallway, pauses for a moment, and then reenters his room.

She presses her hand to her mouth to silence herself when she sees one of the housemaids - a new girl, perhaps, one she doesn’t recognize - materialize as if out of nowhere from behind one of the pillars and follow him in.

They haven’t shut the outer door, not yet, and why would they, Mary thinks, since no one is around to hear them.

She spins on her heel when she hears her father speaking low and the housemaid’s answering giggle. There is a degree of familiarity in the exchange that suggests that this is not the first time this maid has been to the Earl’s dressing room. She has no desire to find out what happens next.

~

It is O’Brien, keeping vigil at her mother’s bedside, who tells Mary to rest. “You will be no good to her if you keep on like this,” O’Brien says, and Mary knows she is not speaking of Cora. “Go rest. Anna will wake you.” Mary doesn’t have the strength to argue, not now, not looking at her mother lying frightfully still and her father whispering words that should be for his wife to a maid.

It does not occur to Mary until the next morning, when the hours of sleep help her see more clearly, that O’Brien has not rested either, that she has been sat at Cora’s bedside for the better part of thirty-six hours. She peeks into the room to find that O’Brien is again the only one with her mother.

She is clutching Cora’s hand between her own. Her fringe is mussed and there are dark circles underneath her eyes. Her features are softened in her sleep. Her head rests on Cora’s chest, below the swell of her breasts, which, Mary notices, are peeking rather indecently from underneath her nightdress. Cora looks like a pale, pallid heroine of a Waterhouse painting, frighteningly still, not like Lavinia’s flushed, glassy-eyed suffering, and Mary can barely stifle her sobs. So this is how it will end for the Countess of Grantham, beautiful even in her illness, for Mary’s mother.

Mary reaches to the lace at her mother’s bosom and tugs it gently up to cover her more fully. O’Brien stirs at the movement.

"I made that lace collar," she whispers. "Her ladyship has always liked my lace. I add it to her plainer things, to make her smile. She says such work is wasted on those things. I don’t agree, and since I mend things, and since I made the lace, it goes where I like it. She smiles when she sees it."

Mary swallows and takes a good look at O’Brien’s face, and it is like looking at her own reflection, when she glanced into her vanity after Anna woke her with some tea. O’Brien bears the same haunted expression that she did, the same latent wildness in her eyes, the same tension laced in her fingers that are so delicately entwined with Cora’s, and suddenly it makes sense, why O’Brien kept her secret.

"It’s beautiful, O’Brien," Mary answers. "I see it now. Beautiful."

O’Brien nods, and Mary knows she has understood.

"I would teach you, my lady, one day. You always did have a fine hand with needlework. Lace is a lady’s art, anyway. I learned from my grandmother, and my mother thought it was time wasted. But my lady does like it so."

"Yes, please, O’Brien," Mary says. "Yes, I would like that, if you would teach me."

"When she is better, then," O’Brien says, and Mary doesn’t ask who she means. O’Brien need not say it out loud for Mary to realize that there will be no lessons in lacemaking if Cora does not survive.

Cora stirs, and Mary excuses herself, leaving O’Brien to her mistress.

~

By the end of the day, Lavinia’s fever has broken. Mary sends away the servants and curtly dismisses cousin Isobel, and bathes Lavinia herself.

Lavinia closes her eyes as Mary kneels on the tile and pours clean, clear water over her head. “Just lie still, darling,” she says when Lavinia makes to take the soap from her.

"What a bother," Lavinia says with mild amusement, and apart from the strain in her voice, it is as if she was never sick. "Promise me we shall do this again, when we can properly enjoy it."

Mary laughs in relief, and thinks that she will gladly kneel on cold tile if it means Lavinia will stay with her.

They do not speak of Matthew, who is almost certainly on the train headed to Downton.

"You know," Lavinia says as Mary runs the cloth down her back, "you would quite like my bathroom at home. It’s quite posh. Rather large. There are rugs on the floor, for warmth in the winter. I should like to bring you home."

Mary can’t hide the grin, then. “Well, why shouldn’t we go to London once you’ve recuperated? Yes, let’s.” In London, they will be left to themselves, and she knows this is what Lavinia is thinking.

Down the hall, they hear the commotion. “Her Ladyship is awake!” Anna shouts through the door, and Mary falls against Lavinia, her tears mingling with the water and the soap clinging to her skin.

"Go," Lavinia says. "I would like to just rest here anyway."

"I’ll send Anna in," Mary promises, and she practically runs out of the bathroom.

~

The first thing Mary gleans from the mayhem in the hallway is that her father swept into the room when her mother started to stir. She attempts to muster some affection for him, to think of some excuse for his behavior, but ultimately, he’s not worthy of it. She knows where he was while his wife was dying.

Her sisters are huddled against the back wall as the doctor and cousin Isobel look after her mother. She is not needed here, not now, anyway. She does not need to look any further to know that her father is playing the good husband, holding her mother’s hand and speaking comforting words in her ear. Edith nods at the doorway, and Mary follows her gaze. O’Brien is hovering near the door to the en-suite, displaced as she has been by the Earl’s bravado.

Mary strides into the room, the privilege of being the eldest, pauses at the bed for a kiss from her mother, stays long enough to whisper in her ear, quickly, all in one breath,  _IloveyouIloveyouDon’tleave_ , and while it doesn’t make sense, not now, when Cora is very much alive, her mother smiles at her and shakes her head.

Mary reaches O’Brien, takes her by the arm and leads her out. O’Brien does not fight her. Perhaps the sorrow at being pushed aside, at always being in the background, has made her more malleable. She does not fight as Mary leads her down the hall toward her own room, does not say a word.

She pauses in the center of the room and looks at O’Brien’s dress.  _How embarrassing_ , she thinks,  _to be twenty-eight and not know how to undo simple clothes_.

O’Brien laughs quietly. She has understood. “I do appreciate the kindness, my lady,” she says, “but I will be fine in my room.”

"Nonsense. You’ll stay here. You spent three days caring for my mother. She is alive because of you. I insist that you sleep here."

"Thank you, my lady," she says with a smile, and begins to undo her dress, leaving no doubt in Mary’s mind that she is being indulged. Mary feels wholly superfluous as O’Brien makes quick work of her dress and corset, but she turns down the sheets and tucks O’Brien in.

"Thank you, Sarah O’Brien," she says, when she is fairly sure that O’Brien is asleep. It’s a risk, she knows, to use O’Brien’s Christian name, but how else is she to thank her? She will thank her woman to woman, not as mistress and servant. O’Brien smiles faintly.

"There’s nothing else I would have done, my lady," O’Brien answers. She opens her eyes, looking Mary up and down, trying to read the expression on her face. "There is nowhere else I would rather have been than caring for your mother. But you are most welcome, Mary Crawley," she finally says.

"And I am looking forward to my lessons," Mary calls back as she dims the lights and shuts the door.

~

It’s Lavinia who voices what Mary has been thinking all this time. They are peering down at O’Brien, who is still sleeping soundly in Mary’s bed, debating whether they ought to wake her up.

"I don’t actually recall seeing her eat anything apart from what I brought her last evening," Mary says. "There were teacups. Maybe she had tea."

Lavinia perches at the edge of the bed. “She loves your mother, doesn’t she? Loves her like we do each other.” Mary hums in agreement.

"And yet it’s quite sad, Mary. Because when I think of us, I think of all we can do. It will never be easy for them, supposing your mother returns her affection."

"What do you mean?"

"Mary," Lavinia says with an almost exaggerated patience, "you may have a title, but I will inherit my father’s estate, which happens to be quite sizable. It’s not what Matthew will inherit, of course, but I will have money of my own, a home of my own, and I will have independence. I do not need to marry, as Matthew frequently forgets. And if you love me, if you want me, you can have that too."

"I hadn’t thought of it that way." She pauses, realizes that these are the words she has waited to hear. "And yes, I do want you, independent woman of means or not."

"Don’t you see? We can make a life together. Miss O’Brien and your mother can never, ever hope for that."

"Do you suppose she’s said anything to her?"

"Certainly not!" exclaims O’Brien, with as much force as she can muster.

"I’m sorry, Miss O’Brien," Lavinia says immediately. "It wasn’t polite to talk about you as if you were not here."

Mary slides the ottoman over so that she can face O’Brien. “We should not have been gossiping, O’Brien. I am sorry.”

O’Brien pushes herself up against the mountain of pillows in Mary’s bed. “In fairness, I should have told you I was awake and listening.”

They stare at each other in silence, until Lavinia shifts uncomfortably.

"You should probably go back, Lavinia," Mary says with a sigh.

"You’re right." She glances at the clock. "Isobel is coming to stay with me tonight. She says you need a full night’s sleep without worrying over your invalids. I told her that I’d see you to bed. She won’t bother you tonight."

"Please thank her for her kindness," Mary forces herself to say, even though she would much prefer to stay with Lavinia. She moves to help Lavinia up from the bed and without thinking kisses her cheek.

"Good night, Mary," Lavinia says with a smile, apparently unconcerned that Mary has just kissed her in front of O’Brien. "Good night, Miss O’Brien."

"Good night, Miss Swire. If I may, you look much better, and I hope you will recover quickly."

"I’ll just be a moment, O’Brien," Mary says. "Don’t sneak away while I’m gone." She means it lightly, says it with a smile, but she doesn’t realize how ominous that sounds until she hears the words.

O’Brien laughs. “I don’t think you could pay me to sneak anywhere at the moment, my lady.”

~

There are twenty-seven steps between her room and Lavinia’s. Fifty-four steps with which to decide what to say to O’Brien.

O’Brien is leafing idly through the book of short vignettes on her bedside table when Mary comes back in.

"Shall I help you prepare for bed, my lady?"

"Oh, no, O’Brien, that’s all right. You’re supposed to be resting."

O’Brien carefully folds back the coverlet anyway. “Anna will have gone to bed, my lady. Let me do this for you.” Mary fancies O’Brien sent Anna to bed.

Mary stands still as O’Brien’s unfamiliar hands make quick work of her things. She is much more efficient than Anna.

Mary catches her by the hand when she’s finished and leads her back to the bed. “Well, I suppose we ought to talk, then, O’Brien.”

"I don’t know how much there is to say, my lady. I’ve already assured you that I’ve no plans to tell your mother about your secret and mine."

"You don’t understand, O’Brien," Mary says, and it all comes bubbling up. "I love Lavinia. I love her very much. I love her for who she is, for little things about her that Matthew doesn’t even know about. I love her because she knows about me, all about me, and loves me in spite of it. I can’t imagine not being with her. And if it’s a sin, so what? I don’t believe in it anyway.

"I saw you this morning!" She is practically shouting. O’Brien jumps a little, though she tries to disguise it.

"I saw how you look at her! My God, O’Brien! I saw."

"Sarah, my lady. I’m not O’Brien, not when you are lecturing me about my romances."

Mary can’t help but laugh, and she sits down hard on the bed. “Mama is right, you know. You know just when to say the right thing.”

O’Brien pats her hand. “Part of the job, my lady.”

"What I am trying to say, Sarah, is that I’m not angry. How could I be? I understand. I know how you feel. I think you are doing a disservice to Mama and to yourself by keeping this a secret."

"My lady," O’Brien says hesitantly, "your mother is a married woman. I respect her as much as I love her, and therefore I will respect her vows."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Mary acknowledges that this should be reassuring.

"So that’s it? You’ll be miserable, then, because that’s the right thing to do."

O’Brien furrows her brow.  _Of course_ , Mary thinks.  _That’s the normal reaction._

"Well, I don’t think it’s right. I don’t think it’s right at all. Mama deserves to be loved by someone who is kind, who puts her first. That’s the love she deserves, Sarah! And you deserve someone who will love you that way, too. I thought - "

Mary lets her voice trail off. This would be the moment when she would stand and pace, but O’Brien’s hand on hers keeps her rooted to her spot on the bed. She closes her eyes.  _Well, why not. If O’Brien didn’t know already, she will anyway. Eventually, as everyone else will._

"Not long ago I thought that it wasn’t necessary to love someone. I thought that it was enough to know that a secret would be kept, and that marriage would be sufficient payment for freedom from that secret. I was wrong."

O’Brien says nothing.

"You deserve that love, Sarah, just as I do, and I’m not ashamed to say it. Maybe Mama is not the one who will love you. But if she is, you will regret it your entire life if you do not give her the chance to say yes or no."

"My lady, you must understand that I cannot, in good faith, give your mother that choice. She is married, so married she will stay."

"Because of the money, you mean?"

"Because of your father, perhaps?"

"Mama will lose her money if she leaves Papa. I know that. Fine. That’s a very good, practical consideration. But Papa should not be a factor in your decision."

The tears rise unbidden to her eyes, and her cheeks burn. “Papa has taken a lover. I don’t know who she is, and I don’t know why he did, but when Mama was dying, when you were with her, he was with this other woman. I know because I saw them. Mama deserves far, far better than that.”

"And if he had a dalliance in his moment of grief, he’s come to his senses, my lady. He’s with her now. They will make their peace."

"Ah, but that’s just it. You see, he is not with Mama."

O’Brien presses a cool hand against her cheek, and turns Mary’s face to look at her. “Oh, my lady. I’m so sorry.”

"Forgive me, Sarah, but I don’t think all the money in the world is worth staying one moment with someone who so devalues you that he takes a lover when you are dying. I don’t care if it’s how things are, as Granny would say. It’s not right. So Mama will lose the money. So? It’s as good as lost, anyway. It’s Matthew’s. She’ll call Grandmama, and go home to New York, and she’ll be quite happy, I imagine."

O’Brien laughs bitterly. It’s a mad fantasy, to think that the Countess of Grantham would leave, that she could so easily slip back into the guise of Cora Levinson, not now, when she has worked so hard to be English. Mary teases her about it, but she wonders if her mother would be able to return seamlessly to her own country.

"Who is she?" O’Brien finally asks.

"I don’t know. A housemaid. I don’t know her. She must not serve upstairs. It doesn’t matter who she is."

One look at O’Brien’s face tells Mary that she is not of the same mind, but she’s far too polite to press. She’ll find out, Mary is certain.

"Now, I’m not going to tell Mama unless she asks. I won’t tell her something that will hurt her unless I must. But I’ll not lie, Sarah. And neither will you. If she asks, you must tell her the truth."

O’Brien squeezes her hand and says nothing. Finally Mary tugs her to stand and walks around to the other side of the bed.

"Too much talking for one night, Sarah," she says. "Come on. Let’s go to bed."

O’Brien hesitates before climbing back in next to Lady Mary. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it if Mrs. Hughes finds out. It’s late, you were exhausted from worry and work, and I insisted. There won’t be any trouble.” O’Brien settles in next to her.

"All I can say, my lady, is that you should not let this change how you love your father, and that’s all I’ll say on the subject."

"Yet it does change how I see him, Sarah. I don’t see any way that it cannot."

It is only when she feels O’Brien’s fingers brush across her cheek that Mary realizes she has been crying.

~

Lavinia agrees with her, when Mary tells her what happened. She tells her everything, and Lavinia holds her as O’Brien dared not.

She and her sisters and Lavinia take turns keeping her mother entertained while she recuperates. Mary spends less time with her, the run of the house devolving on her shoulders. She arranges menus with Mrs. Patmore, sorts out the finances with Mrs. Hughes, handles her mother’s correspondence.

"You’re quite the lady of the manor, Mary!" Edith says, and her words are touched with pride, not spite. Perhaps they have changed, now.

Mary can count the number of distinct words she’s spoken to her father on one hand. She excludes dinners from this count because dinners are official duty. She manages to avoid him at breakfast by taking her morning meal with her mother. O’Brien doesn’t seem to mind the extra work.

One morning, her mother asks the question she has been dreading. When she does, O’Brien, hovering in the corner, pricks herself with her darning needle. She has taken to doing her work in Cora’s room. Mary keeps her composure. Perhaps she has been waiting for this moment.

"Oh darling," says Cora, "have you seen your Papa? I am so worried for him."

"No, Mama," Mary answers, "I have not seen much of Papa in a long time." She dares not glance back at O’Brien.

"Well, surely you were with him when I was sick. He said he was here as much as he could be, and Mrs. Hughes assured me that you and O’Brien never left."

When the moment comes, Mary hesitates. Her mother knows her too well for it to go unnoticed.

"What is it, darling? What aren’t you telling me?"

"Mama," she says, her gaze dropping to her tea, "Papa did not stay with you, not at all, not until you came round."

"Ah," says Cora. "Ah."

Mary can’t bring herself to tell her mother the rest of it. She cannot bear to glance at O’Brien either.

"Who is she?"

"But how did you know?"

"Darling," Cora sighs. "Oh my love, one day you will suspect things that others think you do not, and you will know."

"I don’t know who she is, Mama. But it is not a recent development."

"No," says Cora. "I suspect she is not."

Mary leaves soon after, when there is nothing more to be said.

~

Weeks pass, and slowly life at Downton returns to its familiar rhythms. Lord Grantham spends his time managing his duties and roaming the property. He did not return to Cora’s room after her illness, and she has long since stopped asking him. They treat each other as fond friends, and yet Mary can’t quite believe that Papa knows that Mama has found him out. In fact, she’s certain he does not.

Lavinia breaks the engagement with Matthew just after Christmas. He agrees with her, praises her sensible nature, says that the war changes everything, even that which it should not. They part as friends. He returns to Manchester to build his practice, and Isobel divides her time between Downton and the city. Lavinia stays as the guest of the Earl’s daughter, not his heir. Practically speaking, nothing has changed.

Mary takes comfort in these new routines. She continues to have breakfast with her mother. Someone must see to her, she tells herself, what with Edith forever at the Strallan estate, assisting with this and that and Sybil busy at the hospital, but the truth is that she has come to enjoy these quiet mornings spent in her mother’s company. Lavinia encourages her, and refuses to join them.

She speaks with her mother, keeps her apprised of all the goings-on during her long convalescence - as Dr. Clarkson says, best to spend as much time resting and recuperating as possible, easing gently back into work. O’Brien comes in and out now, giving them their privacy as Cora does not require her full attention any longer. They decide to begin Mary’s lessons in lacemaking after the Easter holiday, when Mary will have less responsibility to Downton.

She and O’Brien never speak of their secrets, but every so often, Mary catches her smiling at them when she comes upon them.

~

Mary is taken by surprise, one morning, when she returns to her mother’s rooms to fetch a set of watercolors for Lavinia. Lavinia has plans to paint the grounds this summer, given that Dr. Clarkson suggests she continue to convalesce in the clean air of the country. London, he says, is no place for a lady who was taken so ill, and Mary quite agrees. Mr. Swire has sent her vivid descriptions of new paintings in Paris, and Lavinia is keen to paint and then abstract her work. Mary does her best to sound interested and informed. Fetching paints is a good way to start. If Lavinia likes it, they will go to Ripon to buy a new set.

The door to her mother’s bedroom is ajar, and Mary can see that she is taking a nap. O’Brien is murmuring to her as she sleeps, and Mary can’t help but listen. A tendency to eavesdrop is the least of her faults.

O’Brien sits beside the bed in an eerie echo of her posture while Cora was sick, and her hand rests lightly on Cora’s. Mary can hardly make out what she is saying, perhaps only every other sentence, but it is enough to capture her attention.

"Oh my lady," O’Brien says, her voice thick with tears, "I was so worried you’d gone from me, with you not knowing me, not at all.

"I love you, my lady," she says, and Mary’s heart breaks at the sincerity and desperation in her voice. Lavinia was right.

"I do, I love you, and you’ll think it’s wrong, but I do, and I was so afraid…"

Mary rearranges herself, pressed as she is to the crack between the door and the frame. O’Brien’s head is bowed on top of their clasped hands, and she can only guess that the wet tears will wake her mother.

Cora’s free hand comes to rest on O’Brien’s hair, her fingers combing gently through the loose fringe at her crown.

"It’s all right," she says. "I am here. I am well. You saw to that."

O’Brien snaps her head up. “My lady! I didn’t realize you were awake.”

"Would that have stopped you from speaking, O’Brien? How long would you have gone on without saying anything?"

"Yes, my lady. I don’t know, my lady." Mary cringes at the despair in O’Brien’s voice.

"I don’t know what to say, O’Brien."

O’Brien pushes herself up and steps away from Cora.

"I didn’t expect you to say anything, my lady. I am sorry for having offended you. I’ll certainly leave now, or if you prefer, I can stay on until you find a new lady’s maid." She inclines her head and turns on her heel, and Mary’s heart sinks. This was not how it was supposed to happen. On balance, though, Mary wonders how she ever could have thought it would happen: how would Cora be expected to react?

"O’Brien, wait!" Cora calls out as O’Brien nears the door to the antechamber. "Wait," she says, pushing off her blankets and moving to stand up.

O’Brien reaches her almost instantaneously. “You are not to stand unaided, my lady,” she admonishes.

"I didn’t want you to leave," Cora answers, her voice quite small. Mary has learned a lot about her mother over the past few months: little things, little quirks and idiosyncrasies that she’d never thought about before. Mary knows that her voice changes when she’s speaking to her daughters and her servants, that she smiles very faintly when she is pleased, that she hums while she reads the morning papers, that there is no use avoiding her questions when she crinkles the corner of her right eyelid.

"Please don’t leave," she says again, plaintively.

"I won’t, my lady. I won’t leave until you ask me to."

"We should talk. You didn’t give me a chance to answer you."

"My lady, but you said —"

"Yes, O’Brien, I said that I don’t know what to say. I don’t! How could I? This is a surprise, you must admit. I think it’s perfectly reasonable for me to want to think about how to respond."

She tugs O’Brien’s hand, and O’Brien sits next to her on the bed this time. “I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

"Did you mean what you said? That you love me?"

"I do, my lady. And I have for a long time."

Mary sneaks a glance at her mother’s face, having turned away from the tableau before, when she didn’t want to be seen. Cora smiles at O’Brien.

"Well, I’m quite flattered. Thank you, O’Brien, and I mean that most sincerely." She sighs and shifts uncomfortably against the pillows, and O’Brien reaches behind her to better prop her up.

"It’s just that I need to think. It’s not Robert, of course. And it’s not that you wouldn’t be discreet; I know you are. It’s not even that we are both women. I’ve been married for a long time. I’ve had my children. I could see myself happy, emotionally happy, with a woman, I suppose, just as easily as I could with a man, and truth be told, I’ve not been happy in a long time."

It’s quite frustrating, Mary thinks, interrupting her mother’s lovely speech, to only see half of the action. With O’Brien’s back to her, her view of the proceedings is quite limited.

"It’s simply that - O’Brien, now don’t take this the wrong way, I mean it quite nicely - I don’t really know you."

"I wouldn’t disagree with you, my lady. It’s not for a lady to know her maid, but the other way ‘round."

"All this to say that I am willing to try. I would like to get to know you better, O’Brien. Shall we start there?"

"Yes, my lady. Yes, let’s do that. That is, I would like to know you better as well, my lady. I know an awful lot about your taste in clothes, but in other things…"

Cora smiled at O’Brien. “I think we should start by using our Christian names when we are alone, then, don’t you think? You’ll still need to work for me, of course, but there’s no reason why we can’t be friends when we are alone.”

O’Brien nods, then holds out her hand, and Mary has to cover her mouth to keep from laughing. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” O’Brien says. “I’m Sarah.”

Cora laughs delightedly, and Mary takes the opportunity to ease open the door to the hallway, and as she leaves, she hears Cora answer, “It’s lovely to meet you, Sarah. My name is Cora.” O’Brien kisses her hand in reply.

~

She is thrilled to tell Lavinia what she overheard, but Lavinia just smiles.

"I hope you’re happy," Lavinia says.

"Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be? Now Mama can’t possibly be opposed to us. It would be too hypocritical of her."

"I wasn’t thinking of that," Lavinia answers, running her fingers over the tubes of paint in the box. "These aren’t watercolors, Mary."

"Well, perhaps you need to add the water."

"I think not. But never mind, we’ll get watercolors in town." She closes the wooden lid careful and flicks down the locks. "I don’t envy you, you know."

"Envy me? Why?"

"You’ll need to look appropriately disinterested in your mother and Miss O’Brien until they tell you, at which time you’ll need to look appropriately surprised."

_Bother_ , Mary thinks, but she stretches out on the divan and puts her feet in Lavinia’s lap, and can’t entertain the thought of borrowing trouble from the future, not now, with a book in her hand, a steaming cup of tea on the side table, and Lavinia Swire smiling at her over the top of her book.


End file.
